In general, Sherman is a very good dog. He doesn’t chew up things that belong to me, he poops outside only, and (except for “his” chair) he stays off the furniture. Besides his deadly gaseous emissions, he’s an ideal pooch for my lifestyle.
The walls caved in on the whole “good dog” thing late last week. Since we were on our fourth cold, drizzly day in a row, I decided to bake some banana bread (more on that disaster soon) and then I whipped up a small pound cake to test a new recipe. It was my first attempt at pound cake, which doesn’t have any baking soda or anything else in it to make it rise but relies instead on the eggs and on the person making it beating the batter like a madwoman. It was a labour-intensive experiment. God bless my Kitchenaid stand mixer.
My pound cake came out scorched on the outside and slightly underdone in the middle, which I attribute to the hatred my oven fosters toward me, but was more successful than the banana bread I baked just before it. Again, more on that another day. I need to write about the banana bread incident once the pain has subsided enough to record the experience in print. I cut a wedge out of pound cake for me, and one for The Electrician, and we ate the parts that were cooked but not too cooked from those pieces. While the recipe showed promise, the oven hates me and it showed in the melon-like rind on my cake. We abandoned the remnants (actually, 85% of the cake) on the stove top and I decided I would deal with it the following day.
While I was eating my yogurt on the couch the next morning, I heard a funny rattling and jingling noise from the kitchen. It was a sound I couldn’t place, and I recently poisoned the basement for spiders again and am somewhat fearful of an arachnid retaliation, so I wrapped my housecoat a little snugger and peeked cautiously into the kitchen.
There was a speckled dog stretched up onto the stove, chewing daintily at a slightly burned pound cake. The unfamiliar sounds were his tags clinking on the metal of the stove and the base of the springform pan rattling around as he snacked. As expected, Sherman instantly hopped down and transitioned into a state of nonchalance not seen since the high days of espionage. I asked the pooch why he was eating my cake, and he completely denied ever seeing a pastry. Even when I mentioned that there were crumbs in his whiskers and his breath reeked of good vanilla, the dog refused to admit he was the villain.
Thinking perhaps I could confront him with the hard evidence, I presented what was left of the cake and made my accusation.
In the photo you see above, I am demanding Sherman, “Look at this cake. Someone’s been chewing on it.” The next photos capture the moment when I asked him if he was the culprit who nibbled this dessert.
I tried again, and decided to ask him why he was eating cake (for breakfast, no less). Clearly, he’d been caught red-pawed, so asking him silly queries about who was to blame was insulting to both our intelligences.
Clearly, we were at an impasse. Sherman wasn’t going to admit he ate the cake, and I wasn’t going to pretend I didn’t know he did. I decided a little drama might close the case as firmly as possible, so I shouted, “Do you see this delicious cake, you bad dog? Do you see it?” (He didn’t, of course, because he was staring at the fridge). “Well, this yummy, yummy, yum-meeee cake is going in the gar-bage!” With that, I popped the lid on the kitchen trash can, hollered, “Goodbye, delicious cake. No one can enjoy you now!” and I slam-dunked what was left of that sad little burnt cake into the garbage can and added an emphatic “so there!” for good measure.
The dog, at least, was disappointed that the cake so unceremoniously disappeared. He doesn’t know pound cake isn’t supposed to be burnt tasting, because people food is not in his regular diet. His apparent approval of my baking disaster doesn’t really soothe my hurt baker’s feelings.
To add further insult to the whole situation, Leroy finished my yogurt in the living room while I was scolding the dog in the kitchen. It was the nummy Greek kind. It was mango. It was the last one.
copyright 2012: http://bluespeckledpup.com